CERSEI III

Prince Bran had been awake for four days now, and as of yet it seemed like he had not said anything. Maester Luwin assured that the boy had no memory of the moments before his fall, but Cersei could not be entirely sure of that of course. Perhaps he had already told the Queen. But if he had, then surely she would have reacted in due fashion. She did have her Kingsguards, Ser Erryk and Ser Mandon with her, after all. Speaking of which...

Cersei had begun courting the older one, Ser Mandon, if only ever so slightly, to see where his boundaries in service lay. As she had noticed as a young girl at Casterly Rock, every man had his price, and the boundaries to where his honour stretched. Her wonderful Jaime certainly had. And though he had done right in taking no wives, he could certainly be forgiven for believing that he had not fathered any children... Cersei herself was more than certain that Myrcella was his. She could not be sure, of course, as she had been many times with Benjen within the same time frame, but Myrcella equalled them both in golden glory, as true a Lannister in appearance as ever a girl was. Although she did have slightly more flat hair than Cersei did herself. That, and her strange warm kindness, which had seemed to come out of the blue, were the two main things which had her thinking from time to time that perhaps she was hers and Benjen's, after all. She still wasn't sure.

At any rate. Ser Mandon. She had tried to charm him, for the goodly amount of time that they had both been there, guarding Prince Bran and the Queen. When she would pass him by, she would greet them both cordially, but especially so to Ser Mandon, who was from the Vale, and so she sensed, might be more loyal to his cloak and sword than to what it represented, or the throne more so than the family of the man who sat upon it. At least so she thought, as she stared into the man's strange, dead eyes. There did not seem to be much in the way of friendship between the two sworn brothers either, at least not more than was necessary. They were quite different, quite unalike. Little Rickon spent a lot of his time lingering around the legs of Ser Erryk, whereas he never went up the same to Ser Mandon, except for that one time, when he had not seen whose legs he was grasping, of course. Ser Mandon had not seemed particularly disturbed, she supposed, but neither had he moved from his post, nor bent down his head, once he had seen that it was the young prince. He had not spoken a word, in contrast to Ser Erryk who was always playing and speaking to the young prince as if he were his glorified babysitter and not only the Queen's and the little princes' guard.

Bran had been fed by Maester Luwin and the Queen every day, wet porridge for the most part, and sometimes a little honey with blackberry jam or something similarly sweet, to gain his power in his long deep sleep. He looked almost like a little bird, as Cersei had noted before, and now he apparently ate like one as well, like a small spritser-flitter or a kolibri hummingbird from the Reach.

...

Septa Arbane walked alongside her, a shadow in grey and gold, as they made their way along the corridors and walkways of the castle.

"The light of the Crone shall shine in all seven rays before the darkness comes.", Arbane said.

If Jaime had pushed the boy only a little harder, it might have shone in the Stranger first, Cersei thought. As it was now, she could only hope that his mind would never fully recover to remember what he had seen and what had happened to him that fateful day. She could not talk about her worries with anyone either. Not Arbane, her least of all. She was not free of sin herself, as Cersei knew all but too well, but she would hardly be [ ] with her and Jaime.

Besides, Cersei sometimes had a feeling that she was secretly writing back with reports to her father and aunt at Lannisport, even though she had not visited there in many years. Or perhaps that was precisely why, for what else was a southron septa to do all the way up here? And her father still had ambitions, and plans beyond just getting her married to the Lord of Winterfell, she was sure... Now, however, he had finally gotten one of his greatest wishes true, to be restored to the position of Hand. The memory rankled at her, even as ancient as it was, when she thought of how she had been pulled away from her prince, Rhaegar, and from Jaime too, and she knew it must rankle him far worse.

Still, she did not wish to stir any of those things up again, and so she did her best to never tell Arbane anything of worth other than the daily happenings on inside the castle, which was certainly enough, however, to keep her going and exercise what power she had over all the other servants here. She was not popular for it, easy to say.

Cersei made her way along the corridor all the way to the northern windows by the northern tower, as Arbane trailed along beside her. She stood herself in the window, staring apprehensively at the hills to the north and at the terrors which lay beyond.

"Do not worry, my lady. If we only have faith, we will make it through winter", Arbane said. "I know that you worry for the children."

The Andals have never survived here, nor has the Faith. What would you know about any such things, Cersei thought but said nothing. They had made it through the last time of course. Her first winter here. Arbane had been her help and support, almost as much as her husband, perhaps more.

They had sat reading from the Seven-Pointed Star, and many other books, and playing simple games to light some small sense of worry from the cold and boredom of it all. And Arbane had lit candles all around her chambers, more than in summer, far more indeed. Benjen had almost scowled on her for that several times, as it meant a danger for a fire to develop, but Arbane had argued against, and helped her to stand up to him in the discussion time and time again, and even gotten a slight word of agreement out of Maester Luwen after a long time and time again, who sheepishly mumbled to agree that a castle made of ancient stone would not burn, so long as the great assemblation of candles was confined inside a single room or two, and finally Benjen had had no choice but to let her to it.

And so it had been. She had been huddled in her wolf pelts and furs, all throughout the winter, holding her children close, little Willam and Tybald, all the while despairing in her grief at her many misconceptions. That had been a hard time for them all, but at least she had been reasonably warm and safe, deep inside the castle, as warm and safe as one could possibly be in Winterfell. The walls were warm by the touch of the warm springs down below, which she was grateful for, of course. But still, winter had been a dark time. Yes, the darkness perhaps was the worst part of it all...

She had barely left the castle more than once or twice for weeks and moons on end, she recalled. But the few times she had done so, they had gone to the godswood to pray during the brief glimpses of day lightened by the white of the snow which was all around, even falling from the sky as they walked, snowing night and day, almost all the time, like a frosty greeting from the old gods of winter, and she had seen the snowmen of the ramparts and crenellations, that the braver, rowdier older children of the castle had made. The servants' children and little Jeyne Poole, who had since travelled down with her father to the capital, and the young stableboy Walder, and many more.

Willam had seemed all so excited by it, though, his father's son in truth, wanting to play and ride pulkey and cart down the slopes of the enormous snow hills that engulfed the walls of Winterfell. She had only let him a couple of times, and always with a good twenty or more servants padded with snowshoes on ready to help him out if he should sink too far down into the snow. That would have been far more than her young mother's heart could have born.

After Tybald had passed from his cold and fevers, after that terrible whizzying, nifle-freezing winter storm that came in the year of 286 and 287, just in those terrible frightening moons had been surely the worst of it all. She had been so cold, and despaired with her grief, but her husband had held her close, so close, and kissed her tears from her cheeks before they could have had a chance to freeze, and she had loved him for it, more than she could ever tell, as the wind of all the frozen hellscape of the terrible North whined and howled outside the castle walls, sheening with the evil, angry ghosts of a hundred northern gods and the cold of their frozen hearts.

The loss of their sweet little blond-haired Tybald had been a tough one, but she had managed to carry on fighting, with the help of her husband, and Septa Arbane, and even Luwin, she supposed. In those times she had written many letters to her friend Lady Reldina down at the Rock as well, though only few of them ever got sent and arrived from what she had seemed of it. She only ever received one reply in three or four moons time, most of it, as the ravens did their very best to brave the wintery storms, but more froze and never made it back than were sent out and returned. Still, it had in some way been enough, and she had saved each letter in a small box underneath her bed. Even in the south, where her precious first boy Joffrey was helding his home, it had been winter, but a slightly milder one there at least, and so she had always ever worried for more than one child at the time, even in those early days and times, even since before when Myrcella came.

Jon had been there too, of course, and as well, sitting with his wetnurse [Barbra ], a big and hefty woman who warmed him well, as she told him and Willam stories of old heroes and legends from the North. Cersei had listened in as well, while she did her best to warm Willam, and as she saw the two young boys try their best to huddle closer together, both their dark heads reaching together. Her heart had become just a tad bit more northern for each of those days, but it had not been enough.

Perhaps after the end of this long coming winter it would finally prove to be so, and she would become as hard and weathered as Old Nan in her youth. Cersei reflected, as she had before, how very empty the castle had been after the death of Benjen's mother Lyarra, and how she felt herself having to occupy the keep of such a presence that a thousand Northern women had done before her. It had not been an easy task, in truth, and she knew that she still was not fully up to it, even after a decade and three at least decently northern-raised children.

The final year of their first winter had been a troublesome one, as well, but finally, by the time that she became pregnant once again and Myrcella arrived in the early time of the year 290 A.C., spring had started to come and the sun finally shone down its face on the castle, making the snow gradually melt as her wonderful sunshine miracle of a girl grew faster and smiled more for each passing day.

She watched the winds slowly die down across the faded grey hills now, as she reminded herself that it was still the end of summer, thank the gods. Winter would surely not come for at least another two good years, she hoped. If her worries were anywhere, she supposed, they should be with Jaime, as well, who was making his missions and rangings all the time somewhere far up there, along the Wall, in a place somehow even colder than it was all the way up here. She admired him for it. Could not understand how her second half could manage such a brutal feat such as that. But Jaime was strong. He had always been strong. Foolish and naive, yes, but strong. Ever so brave and strong.

The rousling of one of the creaking wooden doors wakened her from her thoughts, as one of the servant women hurried out carrying a pail of water, either hot or cold, Cersei did not know.

"My lady", the woman mumbled as she slid past. What was her name, now again? She was one of the younger, prettier ones. A wheat rose which had been allowed to grow up and prosper during the final years of summer, and which now shone as well as it could do, when faced with the competition of her own daughter. She was eleven, or fourteen, or thereabouts, Cersei was sure. She looked somewhat like a young hegret or other bird, with her long slender pale neck, nervously anticipating blue-grey eyes and wheat-blonde, shaggy, flimsy hair nestled up into a half-semblance of restraint but still with the youthish flair of sweetness along the back of her head. Seyna? Stina? Seralla? Velma? Helena? Elsa? Hylva? The names flurried themselves like a wind around the young lanky girl's aura, as she departed like a swift summer wind through the corridor behind Cersei. She was not certain. There were far too many servants to keep track on these days, since they had taken in so many new ones from the wintertown.

She finally roused herself at the sight of the young girl and made her way slowly, ever so slowly back toward the Queen and Prince Bran's chambers, to see if they were still there. As it turned out, they were [not?].

They walked the long way back, as Arbane followed her every footstep, and as Cersei counted the appearing wrinkles on the skin of her pale forehead, fascinating herself with the sight. She was only a couple of years older than Cersei in truth, though a lot of the time it seemed like far more.

Finally, she arrived at the chamber and reached the Queen. Catelyn Tully's time spent with her son had reduced them almost back to civilities and titles again, ever since his waking up, she felt, as they had only spent precious little time, the Queen and Prince Bran spending almost all of their waking time together, and with little Prince Rickon as well, and so she came up speaking accordingly to what she felt.

"Your Grace. Forgive my intrusion. I hope you are well. How is the young prince?" She smiled.

"He is quite well, Cersei. He is doing better each day. Thankyou." the Queen replied, in a grateful tone, her auburn red hair already seeming to have a much better glow than the week before.

Her eyes were alive with light and warmth again, and Cersei supposed that this was the glow of motherhood, something which she had not felt herself for many years now, since Tommen was two.

"I am so glad", Cersei said, doing her best to faint in her hatred. "Would you care to come with me down to the courtyard to walk?"

"Soon. Only another prayer for his continued recovery."

Cersei gave her best fake smile at the Queen.

"Of course. I will gladly join you, Your Grace."

And they knelt down, and they prayed, as they had surely what felt like a thousand times before, but this time in hindsight, to still give thanks to the gods.

Cersei wondered whether the Seven gods were truly listening to them, or whether it was the old gods that had saved the little climber prince's life. He was a Stark after all, and the trees and spirits surely could feel the presence of King Eddard Stark's son, whether he had been raised up by the southron Tully Queen or no.

After they were done, and Cersei somehow lifted herself up in her tight dress as well as managed to help the Queen up, in her equally enscarpened attire, they slowly went out of the prince's arrendated bedchamber and into the corridor again. The walk down to the first floor of the castle was long, but brief, as they didn't spoke.

When they were finally going out and down into the courtyard then, standing on the steps and overlooking down to the dark brown dirt of the courtyard, they saw Ser Erryk, the prince and Hodor, as well as the little tot Rickon, all guarded by their two enormous wolves. Cersei once again shuddered at the thought, but didn't show it.

"Oh look, just how happy they are", she smirlinsed between incensed teeth. "I am quite sure that the prince will be feeling better in no time."

"They do enjoy the time spent with those wolves", the Queen said, her voice still hoarse with grief and an only almost lifted melancholy.

"That is good", Cersei promised. "It will make them strong."

The Queen nodded, grateful, but still sad in her appearance, unjustifiably so, yes, still melancholy and sad, as she looked on her fully healthy son, only hurt in his legs but happy and alive to be by the side of his great greyish beast. Cersei felt herself becoming mad.

And just why in the seven or Northern hells couldn't the gods have granted my own children any wolves like such? She thought, furiously, as she had before. It was not fair. Not fair in any matter of the word at all. King Eddard and the Tully bitch had taken the throne, becoming king and queen, by having stolen the throne from the Targaryens while Robert Baratheon had killed her darling Rhaegar and become a hero for it. All on account of her prince going after Lyanna Stark instead of Elia Martell, his wife who he was married to. And yet she had done what she must, after all of that terrible business, and married Benjen. And thought that she might come to rule over his keep together with him. And so she had. And she she had done, for many many years now, even though it still felt like so suddenly. But close to fourteen years in and now the Tully bitch and her wretched son of a prince were come up north, all the way from down in King's Landing, just because that the icy-heartede King Eddard's Hand Lord Jon Arryn had suddenly died. But the King had gone back, and the other children as well, for the better, and yet here they were still lingering here, despite themselves, and infilitrating her own castle. Winterfell. The castle which wasn't even hers, but which had become so during the years, and the gods had granted them those wolves. Why had not her own son, why had not Willam at least, been granted a wolf? But no. The King had only seen that there were five of them, and then also a spiteful six for Jon somehow, and taken them for himself.

The sixth wolf should have gone to Willam, she thought. But Jon found it, and pointed it out, and then the King gave it to him. Not to Willam, not to her own son.

No, it was not fair.

They kept watching Prince Bran and Rickon, playing with the wolves, who were beginning to be truly enormous, still juveniles but almost the size of true wolves, just like the ones she had seen on that one time when she and Benjen had gone out riding in the first or perhaps second year of their marriage.

They had seldom ever done it again, for some reason, and she still did not fully know why, but perhaps it was because she was always complaining about the uneven footing, which was a reasonable complaint to have. The Wolfswood was completely riddled with old logs and stones, and hills, everywhere small footings far worse so than the plain mark ground of the lush leafy bland green forests down by Casterly Rock. Those were a delight to ride around. At any rate... Why the wolves? Why the prince the wolves?